Set the fire to the third bar
by Miss-Rainy-Skies
Summary: Ally had been fully prepared to spend her first Christmas away from Austin... or so she thought. /"Austin, is there a specific reason as to why you're here in my apartment an hour before Christmas, eating the cookies I laid out for Santa?"


**A/N: Sorry, I don't know what this shit is, but I got really sick and tired of seeing this piece of crap pop up in my folders. Also, this is a really long overdue Christmas/Birthday present for a particularly awesome dork. You know who you are. **

**This is cheesy, badly paced, OOC and to top it all off: unedited. I couldn't even read the entire thing over. You guys deserve better, my apologies.**

**There is no particular reason for the title, it just happened to be the song I listened to while writing this, and it helped me set the mood of this story. **

* * *

_Disclaimer: I do not own Austin and Ally._

* * *

**Set the fire to the third bar**

There's a flashlight left atop her dresser by the bed in case of emergencies.

Emergencies like, mysterious rustling coming from the kitchen slash dining area of Ally Dawon's apartment. There are really only so many instances where the songwriter herself would use the word 'mysterious' to describe a phenomenon, as usually there were perfectly viable reasons behind each individual case.

However, at this instant she can think of none to explain the source of the strange ruckus.

It couldn't be a wild animal as she is currently residing on the 23rd floor of a fairly decent building. Unless of course, it happens to be someone else's large, obnoxious pet rat who managed to gnaw its way through layers of wires and cement walls, which is also most unlikely. And there's no way a thief could manage to stealthily scale up the complex without getting tangled in the mass of Christmas lights her neighbors—as well as herself—had insisted on putting up around this time of year.

Yet the unmistakable sound of rustling was still there.

The game of mental tug of war rages on in her mind while the flashlight taunts her cowardice. The covers that previously offered her comfort and sanctuary all of a sudden feel cold and foreign to the grip of her clammy hands. She thinks she's deluded herself into hearing a relatively loud exhale, before she wills herself out of the bed.

Pacing the small area of her room exactly four times, she ultimately decides against wielding her mighty flashlight, remembering that a chain of Christmas lights on her tree would still be glowing (albeit darkly) in her living room.

Now Ally is usually all for conserving energy and reducing her power bills, but it is Christmas Eve, and she wanted her short little tree to welcome in the glorious holiday while she herself, would be snuggled soundly in her blankets. Seems like this is St. Nicolas' way of reprimanding her plans.

A period of sudden silence urges her courage, and she slowly pulls open the door leading to the hall before holding her breath. When this action is only responded by the still of the night, she bravely takes the tentative steps down the hallway.

The sight is uncanny. She is can't decide whether to be exasperated, or just plain baffled.

Who could it be, but Austin Moon? The teen heartthrob, singer extraordinaire, hunching over her pathetic tree, crinkling noises about; the very apparent culprit of the ruckus.

From the corner of her eye she can see his discarded jacket and travel bag, so elegantly tossed across her living room carpet. She rolls her eyes and clears her throat.

"So, is there a specific reason why you're here in my apartment an hour before Christmas, eating the cookies I laid out for Santa?"

Austin—seeming completely bemused and unalarmed by her presence—wipes the corner of his mouth, swiping most of the crumbs from his lips. "Santa's not real," he says absently.

"How dare you." She attempts to sound somewhat angry, or maybe teasingly insulted, but instead a tired smile stretches its way across her countenance. She had not realized how much she missed him, until she feels a similar wave of relief at his presence wash over her.

He turns away from the tree and breaks free of his crouching position, choosing to outstretch his rather long legs. He grins at her. "I think Santa is disappointed in how little amount of chocolate chips you were willing to spare at his holy expense." There it is. That charm and charisma.

He leans his head back far enough for a branch on her tiny Christmas tree to prick at his neck. If the notion is uncomfortable, he certainly doesn't make an effort to show it. Instead he just looks up at her, eyes blazing over her in a curious yet senseless fashion.

The smile spreading across her lips is cut short when she gets a good look at him. She hasn't seen him in a little over two months and she can't help but survey him; to again take every slight change in his sharp features, his askew hair of blond—probably ruined by the wind outside on a cold night like this—and his smile that somehow manages to look worn out and mischievous at the same time.

She tilts her head, sighing, because she can just never tell what he is or how he's still in her life.

He pats the space beside him, and even though it doesn't look all that comfortable, she scoots herself right by the tree and his right arm. Perhaps she's delirious from the surprise of his visit, because even with the fake evergreen digging into her hip, she swears she feels at ease.

Together they envelope in a brief moment of silence before she breaks the ice.

"Why are you here?"

He quirks his lips to the side, even pouting briskly before answering. "Can't I pay my good friend a visit on Christmas Eve?"

His tone is joking, but she's sure that both he and she are aware that he's on a busy schedule, and performing in New York during the biggest parade of the year, is tomorrow on that super packed agenda of his.

Also, even if she had claimed his presence relieved her, that didn't mean every second they spent in silence didn't bring out concerns building up inside of her. Concerns such as, did he skip out on a show to come here, was he having doubts about his music career—which is absolutely ludicrous, because the boy loves to perform—or the worse one being there is something terribly, terribly wrong with him.

"I got scared," he suddenly whispers. His bold comment catches her off guard, and she immediately whips her head in the direction of her blond counterpart to see his knees propped up with his arms resting on them, while his face is buried into the tuft of his faded hoodie. "I was debating whether to mail you your Christmas present or hand deliver it the next time I saw you, and I realized that… this would be the first Christmas we didn't spend together." His voice rang muffled along the worn out material, yet certain sadness was present. He never sounded more raw and vulnerable to her.

Of course she had realized sooner than him that this was supposed to be the first Christmas they spent apart. In fact, she had already sent his present in the mail two days ago, though she doesn't bring it up. But rather than break into his house and devour his Christmas delights, she had settled in adopting an attitude of jovial nonchalance regarding their distance.

Austin sniffles once quietly, and swipes at a non-existent speck of dust by his nose while she tries to distract herself from the scene unfolding in front of her by trying to remember when times were simpler. When she could precisely narrow down everything this boy beside her means to her a single label.

He shuffles closer to her. "You smell like autumn," he observes. His words stir something up inside of her, because he's said that to her once before, and she's still not sure whether it's a compliment or a plain examination.

"And you smell like a fresh summer breeze."

He laughs loudly; the noise causing her heart rate to speed up

He reaches a hand up to brush her cheek in an affectionate manner. "I've missed you." The heaviness in his voice succeeds in sending the butterflies that occupy her stomach fluttering into oblivion.

She gulps, feeling the presence of nonsensical tears welling under her lashes as she stares back at him, completely unsure of how to respond when the look in his eyes is so damn tender.

He breathes in silently, looking at her almost pleadingly.

That's when she realizes what he is to her. To her, he is a poem. A poem with slightly hued cheeks, crooked smile beaming, and eyes the color of promise. He is a poem to be murmured in the secret hours of a stolen night. One to be traced along the curves of her exposed skin with his slender fingers. She chokes upon this realization.

"You're supposed to be performing in New York for the big parade tomorrow night." It slips out as a slightly caustic comment, and for a moment the chestnut rings in his eyes expand to twice its size, and she almost believes he can see through her dark tangled curls and tight-lipped frown and realize how much she really wants him to stay.

Instead, he withdraws his hand.

"I'll leave in the morning."

She wants to place his fingers back on her face, to feel the heat they once resonated. She wants to belt out a harmony, sing him a list of reasons why they should be together, yet all she can do is bite back her tongue and grip helplessly onto the hand he retracted to lace their fingers together.

She half expected him to shrug her off, which is why she's surprised when he squeezes back tightly in almost a sense of meek desperation.

He smiles sadly. "You and me, we're nothing short of a calamity." He says this without looking at her, and she can tell he means it. She doesn't remember when he stopped being the bright-eyed optimist, or what time he started using words like 'calamity', but his odd demeanor and grief-stricken tone encourages her to contradict him.

"Nah, we're pretty okay," she says quietly, the only light in the apartment coming from the dim glow of the Christmas lights, and the glare reflected off the ornaments hanging undisturbed on the tree, and her reply is that of silence.

A part of her wants to move their reunion to the couch, or perhaps the dining area, where they could have a civilized conversation, yet Christmas is less than an hour away.

So she allows them to sit there motionlessly, hands intertwined, resting in suspended time, too afraid to move forward, and too persistent to take steps back.

Her, who smells of eternal autumn, and him, the poem she will forever attempt to decipher.

* * *

**A/N: Gah, I warned you all. The sad thing is that I have a half written sequel about when Austin gets back from the parade, but I have a feeling it's even worse than this one. I could be persuaded to finish it though... if you guys like the crappy angst.**


End file.
